


Cassandra's Song

by mothwrist



Category: Agamemnon - Aeschylus, Greek Tragedy, Greek and Roman Mythology, The Oresteia - Aeschylus
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, LGBTQ Female Character, Revenge, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrist/pseuds/mothwrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Clytaemnestra recognised another victim of Agamemnon in Cassandra? What if Cassandra too hungered for vengeance, for blood to be spilled for her people and her city? What if Clytaemnestra looked over Agamemnon's body and saw her own thirst for vengeance mirrored in Cassandra’s eyes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cassandra's Song

**Author's Note:**

> A warning for implied rape. (Agamemnon/Cassandra) I tried to keep it vague.

The first time he puts his hands on me, I see her. Just for a flash, a second long scene. She stands over him, a sword in her hand. I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, just for a moment. Since the sack of Troy I have drifted through days, a victim of a catastrophe too vast to stop. I tried to warn my people, but my words were not heeded, my visions not believed. All the death and violence came crashing over us in a flood that could not be halted. Since that night I have wandered like a ghost in the Greek camp, a shade in the body of a girl. My skin is cold and clammy to the touch. The men put their hands on me and I feel nothing, my mind drifting loose, like oil upon the surface of water.

And then Agamemnon, leader of the Greeks, claims me for his captive. As his hands come down on my shoulders I see this, this image of his doom. For the first time in many days I feel something leap inside of me. I see the conqueror of my city brought low by his own wife. I laugh aloud. He looks at me, incredulous, perhaps wondering if I am really as mad as they say, but my laughter does not stop him. I do not laugh again. Later, when he leaves to confer with the other Greek leaders, I turn the vision over in my mind. The fierce joy flares in me again, and I am glad to know Agamemnon will not go unpunished. She must be a singular woman, his queen. The first few days I longed to join my father in death, but this vision, this woman, causes hope to kindle within me. I will see him dead.

We sail across the Aegean, lashed by winds and terrible storms. When we pass by the coastline of his country, a beacon flares into life. His ships sail into the harbour, and he leaves his soldiers camped down in the city. The sun is sinking below the horizon, staining the sky crimson and gold. He takes me in his chariot, and we mount the hill to his palace. As we reach the top I see another beacon burning. Our arrival is expected.

We approach the palace. In the gathering dark I see her standing there. Clytaemnestra. She is a single figure, lit by two lines of torches. Her arms are bare, encircled by bands of gold. Her skin is golden too, thick muscles beneath its surface. Around her neck a torque of gold glistens. Gold stitching upon her dress outlines the powerful lines of her body. The torches burn bright in the darkness, and she blazes too. They outline a path up to the palace steps where she is standing. The light shines upon her jewellery, on her skin, and she seems to shimmer before us like one of my visions. As the chariot stops beside the path of torches she steps to the left and claps her hands. The palace doors are thrown open behind her. Servants come out, bearing a long red tapestry. They unroll it, throwing it down the steps. It unfurls dark as blood, a red tide flowing out between the lines of torches. I gasp. In my mind I see the steps of the palace in Troy flow with blood, real blood, liquid and sticky. It smelled of rot and the grave and the sea.

Clytaemnestra strides forward, beside the tapestry, not upon it. Her long tawny hair falls wild and loose down her back, like the mane of a lion. I have never seen a lion in the wild, but my father had one brought to the palace once. It prowled in its cage, movements constrained by the bars. She reminds me of its captive grace, and the sense I had that were the bars removed it would explode into violence. She comes to stand before us, at the foot of the pathway she has created. Agamemnon steps down from the chariot and she smiles, showing her teeth.

They speak, and at her urging he strides forward upon the tapestries, his feet treading upon the thick red path. In my memory, he and his men stalk forward as Troy burns, their sandals soaking up blood. He goes through the doors alone, and Clytaemnestra turns to me.

‘Come princess, there is no need to remain in the chariot. Come into the palace, my women will see you bathed and dressed.’ Her smile does not touch her eyes. I say nothing, thinking of the lion again, and her teeth. She raises her eyebrows. ‘My husband is very taken with you, little bird. Perhaps he is in love. You do not have to speak to me, if you do not wish, but come inside.’

I find my voice. ‘Why do you call me that?’

She laughs. ‘You are so dark and still, you make me think of the nightingales in my gardens at dusk. And I have heard tales of your visions, your songs.’

I do not speak again, but allow her women to lead me from the chariot and into the palace. I do not trust her kind words. She spoke as sweetly to her husband, and I know the malice which must fester in her heart toward him.

There are low fires lit within the whole palace, so that the marble floors shine with light, and flickering shadows crowd in the corners. I am led to a bath chamber, a bronze tub brimming with water, rose petals floating on its surface. Steam clouds the air. The servants take my clothes and do not return them. I sink into the water and let out a sigh. It is soothing upon my skin, which seems to soften beneath its surface. I smell sweet now, like flower sap. I look up and find Clytaemnestra standing there, watching me. I cannot read her expression. Her brow furrows.

‘How came you by that?’ she asks, indicating a bruise the size of a palm upon my breast. I look down, and remember.

I speak without thinking. ‘That, that is the love token your husband left upon me.’ I am surprised by the venom in my voice. So, it seems, is she. Her lips part, as if she would speak, but a servant comes in.

‘Milady, the King wishes her brought to him.’

Clytaemnestra nods. ‘Of course.’

I am given a white dress to wear. It is cool upon my skin, still hot from the bath. We walk through the palace. Water clings to my hair, weighing it down. The girl takes me to a bedroom, and then leaves. He is standing there waiting, and smiles to see me. My pulse flutters beneath my breast. I thought I had forgotten how to feel, my emotions dying with my father at Troy, but being in this house has awoken them again. He walks toward me and I feel a sick dread. Maybe I am not the dead girl I thought. The naked want in his eyes is obscene. He props his sword against the bed and comes closer, close enough that I can see the individual hairs in his finely trimmed beard, like little spikes. Do not touch me, I think. I do not want your hands on me again. I do not, cannot, speak, but let him manoeuvre me, backing me toward the bed. His teeth shine in the torchlight as he smiles. My newly awoken fear has aroused him. I feel nausea swoop in my stomach and find myself longing for the numbness I had felt in my shock. He looks at me and sees my city burning. I am a trophy to him, a marker of his victory. I think again of Clytaemnestra. She will avenge my city and me, whether she knows it or not. It is as if this summons her. I look over his shoulder and see her behind, stalking forward on quiet feet, her sword raised. My eyes meet hers for a second. She raises an eyebrow. I look back at him, seeking to keep his attention fixed on me. She moves closer.

‘Agamemnon,’ she says, her voice low. ‘This is for our daughter.’ He turns at her voice, his hand going to his hip as he registers her words, but of course his sword is not there. Her blade plunges into his stomach and out, dark blood spurting forth, spattering her dress. Her smile is so wide it is a grimace, a snarl. He falls sideways onto the floor, crying out wordlessly in pain and surprise. His head hits the ground but he is still moving. One hand goes to his waist, coming up red. The other gropes behind him, reaching for his sword. I am faster. I snatch it up and unsheathe it, the scabbard clattering on the floor.

‘This is for my people,’ I say, and I stab down into his flesh, a hand span higher than the wound she has given him. It goes in deep. I am stronger than I thought. He coughs, red foam gathering on his lips. I leave the sword in him and step back, looking down. Impaled, helpless, he shudders and jerks, pinned by his own sword. He tries to speak, but only spits blood onto the floor. She kneels beside him, gripping his head with her hand.

‘For Iphigenia,’ she says, her lips near his, and she presses her sword down and across, slitting his throat. His lifeblood gushes forth, splashing into her smiling mouth, streaking her skin, dark flecks landing on her like red petals. She stands and looks at me.

‘So,’ she says. ‘Why did you help me?’ If I thought my heart beat fast before, it is nothing to now. It throbs in my temples, my throat, hummingbird fast. I meet her eyes. She is still smiling, fierce and wide. Awed, I incline my head toward her. Blood drips from her sword onto the floor, joining the spreading pool there. She stands like a statue, terrible and still. I look up at her again, unable to keep my eyes from her.

‘You are not the only one he has hurt,’ I say.

‘I did not do this for you,’ she says after a pause.

I laugh. ‘No, and yet it is done nonetheless. We gave him a quicker death than he deserved.’

‘Is that so, little nightingale?’ she says. The blood, his blood, still glistens upon her lips in the torchlight. She steps around him, closer to me. ‘You are even more vicious than I thought.’

‘Maybe so. Will you kill me as well?’ I ask, raising my chin. I know the answer, but I want to hear her say it, to make her admit it. I can almost taste the blood in my mouth.

‘No,’ she says quietly, very close to me now. ‘You helped me,’ she says. ‘I will not forget.’ I can see her chest rise and fall in her excitement, a vein throbbing in her throat. I cannot help myself; I reach out for her, and kiss her. The sword is still in her hand, but the other comes up, stroking my wet hair. I fall against her, clinging to her. She tastes of the death she has wrought, salt blood upon her lips. She drops the sword, but I do not hear it hit the floor, a roaring in my ears. We fall back upon the bed. Her weight presses me down, her touch upon my skin blotting out everything. I feel more than I have in days, a tide of sensation, my pulse beating like drums inside of me. I am giddy with triumph. I kiss the trail of blood from her neck, her throat, her cheek. It is like ambrosia upon my lips, the taste of victory and vengeance.


End file.
